


Yes

by WithoutBringingMeDreams



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 4x08 spoilers, M/M, Spoilers, won't happen but I can dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithoutBringingMeDreams/pseuds/WithoutBringingMeDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contains spoilers. The morning after 4x07. </p><p>What happens when Ian wakes up in Mickey's bed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by 4x08 spoilers. Won't happen but I can dream. Haven't read much in the fandom for the past year so apologies if territory has been covered to death.

The first thing that hit Mickey as sleep drifted away was that he was hard. Very hard, and totally surrounded my someone’s mouth. Warm, wet heat continued to embrace him without any signs of letting up.

God, it was so good he didn’t even want to open his eyes. Because if he was dreaming, then he was fucking content to keep right on doing it. And if he wasn’t…

“Lana? The fuck…” he mumbled. It came out garbled and he barely recognized the words himself. But no, it wouldn’t be her, would it? She’d tried this a few times, yeah, and she’d had better luck when he was mostly asleep, or high off his ass. But all that had stopped in the past few months.

She wasn’t an idiot.

So he opened his eyes, and the next thing that hit him was fiery orange-red. Orange-red hair bobbing up and down as the mouth of its owner continued his work.

“Gallagher?”

_Ian._

Ian pulled off for a second and smiled up at him. That stupid, goofy, lop-sided, fucking adorable grin—even if his eyes were a little unfocused. Then he went back to work.

“Fffuu—Gallagher.” If Mickey had been hard before, this was a whole new fucking realm of being turned on. He arched up into Ian’s mouth, unable to stop his hips from bucking with each pass of those perfect red lips.

A half-grunt, half-moan escaped him and Ian looked up again. There was a little bit of black eyeliner smudged under his eyes, and it was that sight that almost, almost brought Mickey back to reality.

Because they needed to…talk or some shit. Something was up. Something was wrong. Shouldn’t Ian have been pissed as hell? He’d obviously broken the kid’s heart and some dark shit had to have happened to turn his Ian into the one he’d seen last night.

 _His_ Ian? Fuck. Fuck that. And fuck talking, because that tongue, that tongue on his dick was fucking incredible, and he hadn’t actually had a good fucking release in who knew how fucking long.

Well, he knew. But no power on earth would make him admit he’d been counting.

“Ian,” he mumbled. “Fuck, Ian, that’s good. Fuck, I want—”

He cut himself off, because the next word that was trying to fight its way out of his dick-possessed mouth was _you._

_I want you._

Ian drew himself off Mickey’s body, flicking his tongue in a way that nearly made Mickey explode right then and there. “You wanna fuck me? You can if you want.” He backed up off the bed and started to pull down his pants.

Wait, what?

Those smudges of black eyeliner suddenly looked much darker. Maybe because they’d smudged right into the dark circles under Ian’s eyes. The dark circles that said _this kid is not okay._

Because yeah, he shoulda been pissed, or at least a little guarded. From where they’d left off to morning wake-up blow jobs…there was an ocean of _what-the-fuck_ in between.

And besides, Ian was the one who did the fucking. Not the other way around.

Mickey licked his lips. “Ian, what the hell is going on with—”

His door swung open and Svetlana stood there, hammer in her hand and crazy fucking look in her blown-wide eyes. “You! Out! Out now!”

“What the fuck!” Mickey turned to scream at her, and too late remembered that his dick was hanging out and _still_ fucking hard despite the fact that his brain had been trying to win back control over the situation.

She swung the hammer and crashed it into a lamp. The shit hit the wall and shattered into a hundred tiny pieces.

Ian scrambled to pull on his pants, ready to dash, always ready to fucking run for it.

Svetlana kept swinging, shit kept breaking, shards of wood and glass littering the floor. “You think I let you take my place so I die with baby poor and alone? You fuck with wrong person!”

Ian went for the window, and she went after him. By this time Mickey had shoved himself back in his boxers and was able to fly at her, grabbing her around her chest and pulling her arms back.

Shit, she was strong for a chick. And pregnant like this, almost fucking bigger than him. Why was everyone always fucking bigger than him?

“You stupid bitch!” He shouted in her ear. “Stop!”

He twisted the hammer out of her grip and she started to go limp. Good thing, too, because pissed as he was he almost swung it. But shit, she did have a fucking baby inside her. Whose, he didn’t know, but that didn’t matter.

He threw her onto the bed—not gently at all. The crappy mattress would cushion her enough.

She looked up at him, tears in her crazy Russian eyes. “I will have nothing.”

Nothing. That’s what Mickey had. Why should she be different? He scanned the room and realized Ian was gone. Shit.

 

He raced out of the house and found him out there on the sidewalk, walking away. Away from town, not towards home.

“Ian!”

He turned around.

“Ian, what the—what was that? I mean, before the bitch came in.” And then Mickey held his breath, because he didn’t know what answer he wanted but he knew he was afraid of the one he was going to get.

Ian shrugged. “Was pretty fucked up last night. Wanted to thank you.” Then he started walking again.

Mickey felt his feet turn to lead. They wanted to root him right to that damn piece of concrete he was standing on. To keep him there while that fiery orange-red hair faded into the distance.

_You love me, and you’re gay._

The jolt of memory hit him with an image, an image of thick blood dripping out of Ian’s mouth as he lay there on the ground. If anyone else had done that to the kid, he woulda fucking killed them.

But it hadn’t been anyone else. It’d been him. And now there was this shell of Ian walking around, acting cold and drugged and just fucking messed up, all his dreams about being a military officer, about being a normal fucking human being apparently up in smoke.

Broken.

His feet released him, and Mickey sprinted forward to grab Ian by the arm. “Ian, shit, what is going on? I’m sorry about Lana…I’m sorry about—shit, just, will you talk to me?”

Ian furrowed his brow. “You wanna talk?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Shit. Don’t make a fucking thing out of this. I wanna know where you’ve been. I wanna…”

_Fix you._

With a sad laugh, Ian pointed back at the Milkovich house. “What about your wife? I think you need to do some damage control.”

“Fuck her,” Mickey said immediately. “Well, not literally, because I never fucking do.”

A layer of that strange coldness seemed to fade from Ian’s eyes. “Oh yeah?”

“Maybe you were…” Shit, that next word was a hard one to say… “Right.”

 Some smugness returned to Ian’s smile. “’Bout what?”

“About fucking up my life by marrying her.”

Ian barked a laugh. “What can I say. Sometimes I know what the fuck I’m talking about. Lot a good it does everyone else, because no one ever fucking listens.”

“Yeah, you’re a fucking genius, firecrotch. You know, your family could use some of that right now.”

A frown ruined the growing light in Ian’s face. “That stuff you said, last night…I don’t remember all of it…”

“It’s bad, Ian.” Mickey finally dropped Ian’s arm, but he was prepared to grab it again if the stupid kid thought he was still gonna walk away. “Listen, I’ll take you to get your stuff from whatever hellhole you were staying in…and then you gotta go home.”

Ian narrowed his eyes. “And then what?”

“Then I’ll…I’ll meet you there later tonight. Gotta take care of some stuff at the bar first. Won’t take long.”

“What about…her?”

“Who the fuck cares?” Mickey looked straight into Ian’s eyes as he spoke, so he could make his meaning clear. That had to be enough for the stubborn idiot. _I’m not choosing her._

Ian looked like he was still thinking about his next move, like there was still a high chance he’d just fuck off and try to lose himself again. Because there was still something wrong underneath the surface of his freckled face. Not something Mickey could fix in a day.

Then Ian shoved his hands in his pockets. “You choosing me, Mickey?”

“Shit.”

Ian’s eyes began to darken—hurt, anger, sadness. Failure all over again.

“Shit.” Mickey said again. “Yes.”


End file.
